


A Nativity of Oranges

by BlueSimplicity



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Christmas, Holidays, M/M, Oranges, POV Outsider, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:33:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimplicity/pseuds/BlueSimplicity
Summary: This is the story of five times Bucky Barnes gave Steve Rogers an orange for Christmas in the past.And the one time he gave him one in the present, and how it’s still the sweetest thing Steve has ever tasted.It is also a story of a mother’s love for her son, another’s worry for her own, a soldier’s acceptance that certain battles can never be won, and a sister’s regret and hope for her own children. But most importantly of all, it is about a love strong enough that even Death couldn’t stand in its way. But Christmas has always been about miracles, and Steve and Bucky have been each other’s since the day they met, and for them love has always tasted like oranges.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 330
Kudos: 384





	1. Sarah

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d by the always amazing Merry_rf. Merry is one of my favorite people in the world, and I would give them ALL the oranges if I could.
> 
> There will be a piece of stunning artwork later in the story by the brilliant ElKane. As soon as I finished A Nativity of Oranges, I knew I was going to want artwork to accompany it. When I first reached out to her, I told her I was looking for something soft and sweet, and as you will see, she more than delivered. She was extremely encouraging and professional to work with, and if you’re looking to commission a piece of artwork of your own, I cannot recommend her enough. You can find more of her artwork, as well as information about commission requests, [here](https://elkane.tumblr.com/).
> 
> This fic is complete at this point, and is a bit different than my usual fare, in that it actually came in at under 10K words. I will be posting a single a chapter every day from now until Saturday. As always, all comments, kudos and shares are GREATLY appreciated. 
> 
> Other than that, I hope you enjoy this small story about Bucky and Steve, Christmases and a love that is even sweeter than oranges. =)

**Sarah**

_He’s such a strange boy_ , she thinks as she stares at this child crouching by her son’s bed on this cold and icy Christmas morning. She’s thought so ever since the first time he showed up at her door with Steve, an arm protectively wrapped around his waist. No, not protective, but… _Proprietary._ A puzzle piece crooked enough to fit against the rough edges and jagged lines of her only _leanbh_ , but with enough colors for the image to only finally become clear when seeing the two of them standing side by side.

It was a sight that had been all too familiar to her by then, for all that her son was barely seven years old; a bloody nose, a split lip, jaw already blooming with a bruise. Disheveled and dirty, his shirt torn, with a seam she would need to mend. He was so much like his father sometimes, with his urge to protect and always do what was right. Too much sometimes, without Joseph’s strength or height to use as a shield to help him in his battles.

While the sight had been familiar, the fact that her son wasn’t alone was not. Because for the first time, standing next to him was another boy, with pale skin, dark hair, and the funniest little dimple in his chin. Wearing a clean shirt of his own, without any tears in it, she could not help but notice, in spite of the blood on his knuckles. And an arm that was keeping a steady but gentle hold on her son, comfortable and easy, sure of himself, as if he was used to holding things that tended to wiggle and squirm, but knew how to keep them safe while never forcing them into stillness.

Even stranger was that Steve was letting him. Steve, who even at seven loathed his own weakness, refusing to accept it, and hated to be coddled and fussed over, worse than a wet cat when he had the strength in him to protest. Letting this other little boy guide him to their small kitchen table, and then turn to their sink as if he were perfectly comfortable making himself at home in this apartment he’d never been too.

_It’s the eyes_ , she thought then, as she watched this child, this boy, this _‘My name is James Buchanan Barnes, but please call me Bucky, Ma’am,’_ hold a handkerchief under the tap, which he then used to dab at the corner of Steve’s mouth. A blue paler than a robin’s egg, than aquamarine, than an early morning sky. Paler than the deep sea blue Steve had inherited from his grandmother, with a hint of grey in them, like a whisper, a secret; a bit of winter, a bit of spring, a bit of _something_ no longer seen very often in this place of shabby buildings and muck filled streets, but of forests, of glens, with their sweet smelling winds. But sharp and true too, all-seeing in the way of those who once dwelled in those forests and glens, and sung their songs into the sweet smelling winds. Something you only got a glimpse of once, if you were lucky, and if they deemed you worthy ended up with a touch of a blessing thrown your way.

If you weren’t, well, you didn’t talk about that, and you spent the rest of your life carrying a piece of iron in your pocket, and leaving a bit of bread and a bowl of milk outside your door in apology.

It was definitely a bit of luck he had brought with him, especially once Steve recounted the story of how some neighborhood bullies had been throwing trash, and even worse words, at Nancy, one of the colored girls from a few avenues over, who had the misfortune of merely trying to make her way home, and _‘I couldn’t just let them do that to her Mama! I couldn’t!’_ The fight would have ended very differently if not for Bucky’s interference, and it was definitely a blessing that he had decided to accompany her son home once it was over.

Truth be told, she never thought they would see him again.

Everyone on their street knew of the Barneses: a proud Irish family of four children, a little better off than most, with a hard-working husband and father to provide for them, and an iron-willed and harsh wife, who made sure her children were clean and well-fed, and were all fiercely devoted to her as a result. She was not the type of woman to give birth to a child like this and allow him to run free in the streets.

But she had been wrong; not just that one time, but time and time again. Because he did come back, not only once or twice, but so many times she had long since lost count. At first, she thought maybe it was just a phase, or an infatuation, something that would burn itself out when the newness of it wore off, and Bucky saw for himself why Steve needed to become such a fighter at such a young age. But it never did, and this child kept insisting Steve was his friend, and his place was at his side. Not just with fights with schoolyard bullies and poverty, but through pneumonia, asthma attacks and long, feverish nights. And never once did his devotion waver. It got to the point where it was now strange to her to see one without the other, or if Steve didn’t begin telling her about his day with a _‘Bucky and I…’_ And what else could she be but grateful for it? They had little enough as it was, a widow and a sickly child, who sometimes spent weeks bedridden, while she worked shift after shift at the hospital so there would always be enough money for the medicines he so desperately needed. Bucky made her son happy, made him smile, took him on adventures, and told him stories when Steve was too weak to leave his bed. Made him laugh until he coughed, too much happiness burbling up through lungs weakened by a life filled with too much sickness and despair. Even as she worried, she would not deny him, either of them, that. Laughter was a rare thing these days, and even if they were poor, at least her son was rich in that, and there was nothing a mother loved more than the sound of her child’s laughter.

So it was a good thing, a blessing, that this Barnes boy had brought into their lives. And for all her initial concern and hesitation, she had accepted it, welcomed it, grew to love Bucky as if he were her own.

Except for every once in a while, there would be something about him that caught her eye, and she would find herself staring at him, trying to see, to understand, what it was about him that her son saw whenever he looked at him.

_He’s such a strange boy_ , she finds herself thinking again now. But, she has to admit to herself with a silent sigh, he’s not the only one. And those two, they fit.

And her son, well…Bucky is not the only strange boy in the room. In fact, if she is truly being honest with herself, this might be the only place where he isn’t.

She has a bit of what her _Mhamo_ would have whispered was _The Sight._ Not much of it, but enough. It’s how she knows which of her patients at the hospital will make it, and need a stronger hand to help them get back on their feet. And how she knows which ones to be gentle with, to whisper to them softly, telling them _‘It’s all right, it’s okay, you can go home. It’s time for you to rest.’_

It’s how she also knows that her son, while small now, will be big and bright, and leave a mark like few others ever will upon the world. 

And it’s how she knows she won’t live long enough to see it.

She can accept that. She already has. Lifetimes are fickle and funny things. Her son will be great, she can _See_ it, she knows it, and she will take her last breath content with that knowledge.

But not the _how_. That she will not know, will never know.

Except, as she watches this strange boy, with his even stranger eyes, crouching by her son’s bed on this cold and icy Christmas morning as he reaches into his pocket to pull out an orange to present to Steve, happily sharing with him what she now knows are his own meagre Christmas spoils, she thinks she has her answer.


	2. Winifred

**Winifred**

She knows. _Of course_ she knows.

Just like she knows what they say about her at the local butcher, the grocer’s, their church when her back is turned and they think she can’t hear them. _‘She’s a tough one, that Winifred Barnes, thinks she’s too good for the rest of us,’_ or _‘I’ve heard she can squeeze a penny ‘til it bleeds,’_ when they’re feeling kind. And _‘Battle-axe Barnes,’_ or _‘Colder than ice, she is. No one knows how the hell her husband managed to get four kids outta her,’_ when they’re not. It’s not like she cares. They don’t know her, not really, nor all of the sacrifices she’s made to keep her children healthy and safe. The meals she forewent, so her children were always well-fed. The extra washing and mending she took on, because even though George had a well-paying job, money was always tight with four little ones underfoot. The hair she’s brushed, tears she’s wiped, and lullabies she’s crooned, so that if her children ever doubted anything, it would never be that she loved them. Perhaps she wasn’t the softest or most beautiful of women, but she knew how to take care of her family; how to use her strength to keep them safe, and even more importantly, how sometimes survival was more a fact of single-minded determination than luck or faith.

And her children, her husband, they love her for it. That is not something she ever has to be told.

So she lets them, these strangers who have not even the simplest grasp of the truth, whisper and click their teeth at her. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t know what they’re saying. She’s not stupid, she never has been. Just because she has tunnel vision, doesn’t mean she can’t see. Especially when it comes to her family.

So of course she knows.

And he has always been a strange child, her first-born. With his eyes too big and bright, a smile she knows did not come from her, and laughter like spring. He is his father’s son. And it is a blessing and a grace, because her husband is a good man.

But it is also a curse, a burden, because he _is_ his father’s son, and when a Barnes man decides you’re theirs, there’s nothing for it, no escape. To be loved by a Barnes is to be given the poison of life, of hope, of dreams. And the worst part about it is not that you will never be able to get away, but that you’ll never want to.

And her Bucky, at just sixteen-years-old, has already found his person.

Had found him at eight, if she is really being honest.

She hates it, wishes it weren’t true, but once seen, it can’t be unseen, and she has never been one to lie to herself. Because her son is not one of _those,_ not some dirty fairy trying to sell his wares down by the docks. And there have been plenty of girls that he’s mentioned to her; Caitlin and Anna, and even Mary-Katherine just last month, all of them good Irish girls. So she knows there will be a woman, a wife, and children of his own at some point in the future.

Or at least she hopes there will be.

Because he’s never looked at any girl the way he’s looking at that Rogers boy right now, stars in his eyes and dimples in his cheeks, such a happiness in him as he hands over the Christmas stocking he prepared himself, that she knows is filled with oranges, even if she doesn’t know how he’d gotten them all.

Sometimes she can even admit that she feels sorry for the wife he hasn’t met yet, hopes she’ll be strong enough to accept the fact that she will always be the one who comes second, that she will never be enough. He will be a good husband, a good provider, who will never raise his hand to her, because that is not his way. But he will never love his wife the way George loves her; because he is his father’s son, and he has already found his person. And it’s Steve. This sickly little boy, with no father and a mother who, she will admit, is doing her best, but who can barely go a season without Death trying to knock on his door.

Who her son has decided is his. Because he is a Barnes, and that is what Barneses do. They love like no other and may the good Lord protect you if you try to get in their way.

She has seen it in her George, the way he burst into their bedroom, cursing at the midwife in spite of her protests, hours after she had gone into labor, the birthing having taken far too long. The child had been stillborn, and there had been so much blood, too much, and she knew she would have followed, if he had not clung to her hand and refused to let her go.

And she had seen it on the night her oldest child had not come home, knowing where he was and going to retrieve him, because _enough was enough_ , only to find him kneeling by his friend’s bedside, his hands clenched not in prayer, but determination, growling at the priest who had come to deliver Last Rites.

He had been twelve-years-old, and to everyone’s surprise but her own, Steve survived. And she finds that she cannot hate Steve for it; it’s not his fault, and it wasn’t his choice. Bucky _is_ a Barnes, after all, and that is what they do for love. Especially for love.

But still, she worries.

He may be a Barnes, borne of George’s seed inside her body, but he is also her son, her first child, and it was her blood that fed him, her heart that he nested against until he was ready to face the world. But she was a Hubbard before she was a Barnes, and the Hubbards, well, they can be a cold, hard people. With iron in their bones and ice in their blood that will howl like a wolf, if they are not tempered by softness and a love that can feed the endless hunger in their guts.

Winifred knows her son; knows him better than anyone else. He loves like a Barnes, but he has the wildness, the hungers of a Hubbard. And in those moments she is certain almost no one else has seen, when he is perfectly still and silent, with eyes that remind her of a raven’s, in spite of their blue, she can see the winter in him. The potential for destruction, for death, a knife’s edge that will cut down anything in its way.

It is a look she knows, one she has the memories of staring back at her in the mirror often enough.

She worries, because she does not know if Steve is strong enough, will live long enough, will love him back enough, to save him from that, from himself. It haunts her sometimes, at the strangest moments. Even now, on this night after a day filled with family, a good meal, Christmas carols and holiday cheer.

So she seeks her comfort the only way she can, by curling up into her George and pressing her face into his neck.

“ _Ssh, ssh_ ,” his voice comes to her, soft and sweet, just like the hand he has started to run through her hair. “It’s alright Winnie, it’s alright.”

“They’re so young, George, so young. Still boys, and it won’t be easy,” she hears herself say, although she never intended to speak the words, the fears in her heart, aloud. But he is a Barnes, and he is also her husband, and she has always been able to speak her truths to him. “And sometimes…Sometimes Bucky looks at him, just like you look at me.”

He is quiet, for a long time, and she finds herself with a new worry, a new fear, because she does not know how he will react to this. But he doesn’t pull away, and his hands never stop their endless stroking of her hair.

“He does,” is what he says when he finally speaks, his voice as gentle as his fingers. “And I know you’re worried. Because for everything that they all say about you, you’ve got a big heart Winnie, the biggest one I’ve ever met, and I know how hard you love your children, me, Bucky…even Steve.” Of course he would know that about her. That’s the thing about the Barnes men. They love like no other, but only because they can see the truth in things, people, the world around them like no one else can. She should know that by now, she _does_ know that by now. And yet she is still surprised by what he says next.

“He knows what he’s about, our Bucky. He’s a Barnes, and it’s not his fault. We can’t help who we love. But,” and here he pauses to place a small kiss to her forehead, the softness of a feather, the grace of a benediction, “while you’ve been watching our boy, I’ve been watching Steve. And the thing you’re missing is, that while Bucky looks at Steve like I look at you, Steve is looking right back at him the same way you look at me. And I couldn’t ask for anything more for one of my children.

“They’ll be alright, those two. It won’t be easy, it never is, but they’ll find their own way. Bucky’ll make sure of it.”

“Really?” she can’t help but ask.

“Really.” Another kiss to her forehead, another stroke of his fingers through her hair. “Now stop your worrying. It’s Christmas, and now that everyone’s finally asleep, I need to spend some time with my beautiful wife.”

It’s a small comfort, his faith, his belief, his understanding. But it _is_ a comfort none-the-less. And he is a Barnes after all, and she should know, better than anyone, how their love is the biggest miracle anyone could ever ask for in their life.


	3. Peggy

**Peggy**

It’s not the most traditional of Christmases she’s ever had. There isn’t any of the roast goose, sprouts, mince pies, plum puddings and mulled cider of her childhood. Nor a huge tree, decorated with baubles and ribbons, garlands lining the banisters of her family home, or the echoes out in the streets of carolers singing their songs of goodwill and cheer.

It’s not even Christmas; that’s still more than three weeks away.

But it is still one of the best holidays she’s ever had, because this last mission was a success, the endless shelling has stopped, and most importantly, she is not alone. Each one of these men she has come to love and respect in her own way is with her, even Steve, especially Steve. And that fact by itself makes it the very best Christmas she’s ever had.

She may not be surrounded by all the fixings of a traditional Christmas, but the abandoned farmhouse they’ve hunkered down in is warm and dry, and safe enough, at least for the moment, and she now knows how to take her blessings when and where she can find them. The war has taught her that.

Apparently, it has also taught Steve that as well. It had been an endless trudge through miles and miles of bombed out fields, abandoned villages, their breaths the only sign of life amongst the cold and damp ground, before they literally stumbled upon the farmhouse. And Steve, never one to not take advantage of an opportunity when it presented itself, upon determining it was indeed unoccupied, had declared they were taking a break, _‘and were going to celebrate Christmas right then and there, goddammit!’_

It was the right decision, and even if she’s prided herself on never being one to complain, she has to admit she’s grateful for it. And it has never ceased to amaze her what this band of brothers can do when given a solid goal and the right motivation.

In less than an hour, they had managed to pull together a strangely satisfying Christmas feast. A bottle of wine from Dernier, a small bag of peppermints Monty had pulled from one of his pockets. A loaf of bread, only slightly stale and more than suitable enough if held over the fire to toast for a bit, that Gabe had donated to the celebration, and a tin of cookies Morita had presented; a gift from his sister in his last care package. Dum Dum had sung quietly, with a surprisingly fine voice for a man so rough around the edges. And Steve, Steve, just like always, proved to be the biggest surprise of all, pulling three tinned cans of ham from his pack, that he must have been carrying for weeks, as if in preparation for this very moment, which had been met with cheers, albeit subdued, of approval.

And Sergeant Barnes, while not having anything of his own to contribute to their celebrations, had laid his rifle down, and turned all his attention to tending their men, with steady and sure hands, telling dirty jokes with a sly smile while he stitched and bandaged and wrapped up a strain. An endless stream of medical supplies he had hidden somewhere on his person, making a good night even better, because someone was there to see to your hurts.

_He’s such a strange one,_ she finds herself thinking not for the first time, as she carefully studies Steve’s second-in-command. Charming and easy-going when he needs to be, enough to soothe any frayed egos after Steve has laid out his latest plans. With a wink and a grin, he can ferret out the latest gossip or the most important information from the tightest lipped of contacts. He is also the biggest mother-hen she has ever seen, always taking care of the men, when from anyone else they would refuse, ensuring their needs are met. And the only one who is ever able to get through to Steve, make him listen, reassess, re-evaluate and refine a plan, when no one else can.

But there is also something deadly and dangerous about him, even more so than everyone else in this originally ragtag group, and she can’t help but be grateful he’s on their side, that he’s the one guarding Steve’s back when they’re deep in enemy territory and far out of reach. There are levels to him unknown, whose codes she hasn’t been able to break. Silent and still when he needs to be, as soundless as a ghost when the situation calls for it, and always when you least expect him to. He has snuck up on her more than once, which pisses her off, even though she’ll never admit it out loud. A sniper’s focus, a wolf’s cunning, and a tread always filled with purpose. There is something there, something unknowable, buried deep, and it is unafraid. _It’s his eyes,_ she thinks. The palest, sharpest blue she has ever encountered, that see everything.

Especially when it comes to Steve.

There’s a look to them that is only there when he turns them Steve’s way.

And, even more disturbing, a matching one in Steve’s, whenever she sees him looking back.

When Steve looks at her, his eyes are filled with promise and determination, respect, and an assurance of better things to come.

When Steve looks at Sergeant Barnes, his eyes are ravenous. Like he wants to devour his second-in-command whole. Or, perhaps even worse, as if _he_ is the one who wants to be devoured.

It’s a brief thing, and subtle for all its intensity. And you have to know how and when to look for it. But she has not only been trained by some of the sharpest minds in this war, but is now _the very best_ at what she does, and knows how to watch, to study, to find the shape of things.

He’s looking at his Sergeant like that now. She can see it plain as day, even from a distance, as she stands just inside the doorway after stepping outside to relieve herself. At his _Bucky,_ who once again has proven to be a surprise, and is holding an orange in the palm of his hand as an offering to Steve. It’s a small one, the skin bruised, but it is still an orange, a Christmas miracle in these war-torn lands, where such things are as rare as pearls these days. From the expression on his face, Steve’s knows it too. And there, _there it is,_ that look in his eyes, that hunger, that burning, that… _love._

What she wouldn’t give to have him look at her like that.

“He’s not for you.” Dum Dum’s voice is quiet, gentle, not a hint of mockery in it. She had been so lost in her own observations she failed to hear him coming up behind her, and she silently curses her carelessness, and the vulnerability it must have revealed.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, instead of admitting to all of that.

“No disrespect meant, Agent Carter,” he says, with a slight tilt of his head, before glancing back at the semicircle of his brothers-in-arms, at Steve and Sergeant Barnes, and the flickering shadows that are dancing across their smiling faces. “But he never was. Some things just aren’t meant to be, while others always were.” With that, he tips his ridiculous hat congenially in her direction, and makes his way back to the rest of his company, as if they hadn’t spoken at all.

_Smarter than he looks, that one,_ she thinks, and once more finds herself surprised on this night that has been full of them. They are the best of the best, these Howling Commandos, already living legends to those back home, and a terror to the Nazis. But then again, they were all hand-picked by Steve, and Steve would know better than anyone how to look past the surface and see the truth buried deep within. Beyond the color of someone’s skin, the shape of an eyelid, an accent. Or muscles that would hint at brawn instead of brains. He would especially know about that one now. It was how he was able, when he first looked at her, to not see her breasts or the curve of her hips, but her potential, a like recognizing like, and to always treat her like an equal. 

She wonders where he learned that from. But then she turns her attention back toward Sergeant Barnes, who is still staring at Steve in that strange, strange way of his, and thinks she doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

Still, Dum Dum’s words have angered her, like a gauntlet laid at her feet. And she’s no fool; she knows when to push her way through, and when to use patience and cunning. She can wait, and she knows she has things to offer that are infinitely sweeter than oranges.

That doesn’t mean she is willing to fold this hand, not just yet.

“Got one of those for me?” is the feint she uses, when she rejoins the group and settles in her seat at Steve’s side. But she’s too late; Steve has already eaten his half of the orange, while Sergeant Barnes licks the last drop of juice from his share off his thumb, with one of his charming smiles that says without words he knows he has won this round.

_‘He’s not for you,’_ the words echo in her head.

_But he could be,_ she thinks, _he could be. And I can give him things you never can. If you love him enough, really love him, you’ll let him make that choice for himself._

A month and a half, and an unfathomable decision later, she knows Steve has made his choice. And this time, she isn’t surprised.

Because in the end, the promise of a dance could never compare to a kiss that won’t ever taste like oranges again.


	4. Rebeccca

**Rebecca**

Her Christmases are so strange now. All these years later, with a new house and a family of her own, and she’s still waiting for Bucky to come and wake her up, braid her hair and help her into her best dress. To see the big brother that she adored standing in the doorway, already dressed, tall, broad shouldered and handsome, with a smile and a _‘Merry Christmas Becca, now get your lazy ass out of bed, Ma needs our help,’_ on his lips, while Steve snickers from not too far behind.

It’s been over twenty-five years, and she’s still waiting for him to come home. She supposes she always will, even though she knows better, and has children of her own to see to.

But Christmas has never been the same since World War Two took her brother, took both of them, from her. They won it, and she knows that was a good thing, a thing that needed to happen, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t come without a brutal cost. And on most days, she’s better at not ruminating on that loss, embracing her present and looking toward the future.

Still, it’s always the hardest on Christmas, and she finds herself cleaving to her memories and what little she has left of Bucky more than she usually allows herself.

She’s looking at one of them now, while she quietly brews a pot of coffee and waits for the rest of her family to wake up. It’s a small, cheaply made sketchbook, with frayed pages and a worn cover, not something that belonged to Bucky, but is of him none-the-less. It had been delivered personally to their door a few months after the receipt of a horrible telegram, then another, and finally the announcement of V-Day, by an elegant and poised woman who introduced herself as Miss Margaret Carter.

_‘Your family was listed as Steve’s next of kin,’_ she had said, after the introductions had been made. _‘And there wasn’t much left, from either Sergeant Barnes or Captain Rogers, but I thought it important that what was, was returned to you.’_ And then she proceeded to tell them details, nothing too specific, but more than anything else they had been told, of what had really happened to her brother and his friend, who could never bear to be apart from each other for more than a few days, before with a final _‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’_ she turned and left the Barnes family alone with its grief.

_‘Do you think she knew?’_ she had asked her mother, hours and a bottle of whiskey later, after they had gone through everything and it was just the two of them sitting at the kitchen table, carefully running her fingers over the cover of the sketchbook. It was not something they had ever spoken of before, even if every member of her family had known what Bucky and Steve had been to each other. Such things were never spoken of, and the two of them had been careful, for all that they were in love, Bucky always making sure to be seen at all the dancehalls with the prettiest girl on his arm.

But either grief, or the whiskey, had made her brave, and just once she wanted the truth to be spoken. Her brother and Steve deserved at least that much, after everything they’d sacrificed for the world.

_‘Of course she did,’_ her mother had said with a click of her teeth. _‘You know as well as I do she looked through that sketchbook before she gave it to us. She looked, but she didn’t find what she was hoping for, I can tell you that much. I’m just surprised she didn’t destroy it instead.’_

So was she, if she were being honest. Because everyone had known, had seen how Bucky had looked at Steve. How his eyes would never fail to seek him out, burning, burning, _burning_ whenever they finally found who they were looking for. But in these pages, that were water stained and crusted with dirt, was the evidence of what Steve saw whenever he looked at Bucky. All one had to do was see the way he had captured her brother’s eyes, the shape of his ear, or in more than one, the curve of his bare shoulder while his arm reached for the artist, to know that Steve felt about Bucky the exact same way Bucky had felt about him.

She was glad for it, as condemning as the evidence was. Because it meant that her brother wasn’t the only one, and all of his heart, his love, his endless devotion, had been treasured and just as fervently returned. They were the most honest images of her brother, and Steve had made sure to fill every single one of his lines and shadings with all the love he had not been able to speak of.

_‘As soon as we lost Bucky, we lost Steve,’_ her mother had gone on not too long, and another glass of whiskey, later. _‘It’s the Barnes’ curse. Once one of those men sets their eyes on you, there’s nothing for it. And there’s nothing you can do that will make living without it bearable. That poor woman thought she had a chance, but it was already too late. At least she’ll get another one. It was more than Steve would have ever got.’_

She hadn’t known how to respond to that then. Truth be told, she still didn’t know how she should have responded to it. Winifred, for as fierce and filled with such a sharp practicality as she was, had some fanciful notions about what it meant to be a Barnes, and how beautifully devastating it was to be loved by one. And yes, her brother had been strange, even she could admit to that, but he had loved with all his heart, and she knew he would have wanted Steve to go on without him, find happiness again wherever he could.

But then again, her mother had died less than six months after her father had passed away from a heart attack, so who knew? Maybe there had always been some truth to her words.

It certainly wasn’t true for her. She loved with her father’s heart, but she had also inherited her mother’s practicality. Her William was a good man, kind and generous, and an excellent husband. He made sure to spend time with their children, and never once demanded she sacrifice her own dreams of a career in nursing. And she loved him, she truly, truly did. But God forbid if something were to happen to him, while she dreaded the thought, she knew she would survive, was strong enough to continue her life without him.

Maybe it sometimes skipped a generation. Jamie certainly hadn’t set his eyes on anyone like that. He was a free spirit, her oldest, with all of his namesake’s charm and intelligence, but nowhere near his intensity. It was for the best; it hadn’t done her brother any good, and she would happily spare her son that fate.

_Ridiculous_ , she thought as she closed the sketchbook and returned it to its hiding place at the back of her closet. She had already spent enough time being maudlin. It was Christmas, after all, and while there might not be any oranges, there were things she needed to do, and her family deserved a good holiday.

At least she thought so until later that day, when Stephanie brought a friend from college with her over for Christmas dinner, and she saw the way her daughter was looking at her. She didn’t have her uncle’s eyes; hers were brown instead of blue. But the look in them, _the look in them_ …she knew that look.

Stephanie was looking at Gina the exact same way Bucky used to look at Steve.

For just a brief moment, just the briefest of seconds, she wants to scream, to shake some sense in her, to tell her to stop. Because not only has her daughter fallen in love with a woman, but a black one, and that will only make things even harder. She would never deny her child that happiness, but she is also a mother, and she would do anything to spare her that pain. Because it won’t be easy, and the world is no more understanding than it had been when Bucky and Steve were her age, and Stephanie deserves better, so much better, than to have to love in secret, and it’s not fair.

Maybe it’s a phase, maybe it will pass, and maybe she’s just seeing things. Or maybe Gina will be more sensible about it than Stephanie.

Or so she hopes, until a few hours later, when she watches her daughter hand over a small wrapped present to Gina as a Christmas gift, that once opened reveals a tube of orange flavored lip-gloss, of all things. And Gina is smiling back at her, looking at her in the same exact way that Steve used to look at Bucky every Christmas whenever he gave to Steve his promised orange.

She knows then that it’s already too late.

So she sighs and heads into the kitchen to start washing up. She had loved her brother with all of her heart, no matter who he loved. Still does. She can do no less for her daughter. It may be a curse, but it can also be a blessing, and who is she to deny anyone the chance for that kind of love in their life. They’ll find their way; Bucky and Steve did, even if had cost them in the end.

Hopefully Stephanie and Gina will be lucky enough to get their own happy ending.


	5. Steve

**Steve**

It’s only his second Christmas since they pulled him from the ice, but if anyone were to ask him, he would tell them that even though it used to be his favorite holiday, he fucking hates Christmas now.

They can’t understand, and there’s no way he could possibly explain it to them. So he’s played a game of keep away, telling Tony he’s spending the holidays with Sam’s family, and telling Sam that he’s spending it at Stark Tower. They’ll catch him at it eventually, and he knows he’ll have to endure Tony rambling and ranting at him, and Sam’s concerned questions. They mean well, he knows they do. But they can’t understand.

Winifred would have. She would have taken one look at him and not needed any words to know that the pain he was in was more than anyone could bear.

_‘You poor bastard,’_ she had said to him once, one of the few times in his memory that Bucky had gotten sick, and it had been Steve's turn to be afraid that Bucky was going to be the one to not make it to morning. Bucky had spent endless nights by Steve’s bedside; how could Steve do any less? He had bristled, thinking she was using the fact Bucky was asleep to let him know what she really thought about him and his mother. But while at turns stern and steely, Winifred had never been cruel, and there had been no judgement, only compassion and sympathy in her gaze when it met his.

_‘You were doomed the moment he set his eyes on you,’_ she went on kindly once she knew she had his full attention. _‘You don’t know what he’s done. He doesn’t know what he’s done. It wasn’t on purpose, but it was with intent, and it’s too late now. For either of you.’_ She had paused to shake her head, to place a hand that was calloused and strong, but warm, so warm, on his shoulder. _‘You poor bastard…It’s not an easy thing, what he’s done to you. I just hope you can survive it.’_ And then she turned and walked away, leaving him to his vigil.

He hadn’t understood her then. But he did now. And she was right; it had already been too late, and he hadn’t been able to survive it.

Except somehow, he had.

He hadn’t thought so, his first Christmas in this new century. He had spent it at Stark Tower, with his new teammates, the Avengers, who were a good group of people, even if they weren’t the Howlies. But they hadn’t been enough, and there were no oranges, and no one to press kisses to his lips, and call him their Christmas miracle. Because Bucky was dead. And it wasn’t Christmas, it would never be Christmas, unless Bucky was there to give him an orange and let him know with both his voice and his body how much he was loved.

They didn’t even know about Bucky, who he had been to Steve. Oh sure, they knew about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, the only member of the Howling Commandos to give his life in service to his country. But they didn’t _know_.

How he had never once given up on Steve, when everyone else doubted he would make it to his twelfth, sixteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-fifth birthday. How even after the serum, he had never once fallen for all the bullshit and propaganda about Captain America, and instead chose to follow Steve back into battle, because it was never Captain America he believed in, but Steven Grant Rogers, that skinny little kid from Brooklyn who was too stupid to walk away from a fight. How he always knew how to plant his feet, and hold his ground, arguing with Steve when there was something Steve needed to hear. Or how he could always make Steve laugh, when no one else could, even when times were so tough, starving to death was an honest possibility.

How he used to look at Steve with those eyes of his, that Peggy and even his own mother used to say were the strangest eyes they had ever seen, but within which Steve only ever saw love and devotion, and something he knew he would never be able to live without.

How during nights in their apartment, Bucky used to hold him so tight in his arms Steve thought his ribs would break, and that was the only time, _the only time,_ Steve felt like he could ever breathe.

How he always gave Steve an orange for Christmas, his own when he couldn’t afford to buy one, and how the taste of that on Bucky’s lips was the sweetest thing he had ever known.

History had turned Steve into a legend, but at the cost of the one thing, the one person, who had mattered to him more than anything else.

So that first Christmas, while he hadn’t been alone, had been brutal and painful, and the loneliest one he had ever experienced.

And yet still, he would have gladly paid that price if it meant he wouldn’t have had to live through everything that came after.

Because somehow Bucky was still alive, and what he’d had to endure was a fate even worse than death.

After that day on the bridge, the battle on the helicarrier, all of Peggy’s hard work being brought to ruin, there had been that horrible file given to him by Natasha, that he read every single page of. Once he puked his guts out, he had sobbed and screamed and punched walls, unable to stop until his hands were bloody and even his serum enhanced body threatened to give out on him. He would have burned the world if he could have, and not given a damn about any innocent bystanders.

But even in this, as horrible as it was, even after everything Bucky had been through, he was still giving to Steve. Because for the first time since he had been pulled from the ice, he had a mission, a focus, a goal of his own choosing, and anyone who tried to get in his way could go fuck themselves.

He was going to find Bucky and bring him home.

Luckily, it never came to that. Sam and Natasha had been nothing but supportive, not getting in his way, but refusing to let him do it on his own. And even Tony had volunteered to let Steve use any of the vast resources at his disposal to help him in his search.

Unluckily enough, all these months later and there was still nothing. Bucky had always been smart, as smart as Steve in his own way, something else history had forgotten about him, and it quickly became obvious that wherever he was, he didn’t want to be found. Steve didn’t even know if he was still alive. That didn’t mean he was giving up. He would never give up, as long as there was the smallest possibility that Steve could bring him home. But Sam had finally put his foot down, not calling an end to their search, but demanding they take a break, at least for the holidays, because _‘Jesus Christ Steve, it’s fucking Christmas. And are you a big fat white guy in a red suit on a sleigh with reindeer? Because unless you are, we’re taking a break and going home, ‘cos I really need to eat some of my mamma’s cooking.’_

So here he was, in Brooklyn, spending his second Christmas alone. And while he may have returned back to where he had grown up, it wasn’t home. Because Steve’s home was, and always would be, Bucky. And Bucky wasn’t there.

At least, not yet.

That still didn’t mean he couldn’t be close to Bucky. The Barnes family plot was in a cemetery not too far away, and if nothing else, he could pay them a visit. They would understand, and not judge him too harshly for his decision to be alone, especially Winifred. And it would be nice to see them again, pay his respects and thank them for all they had given to him.

So he made his way to the hallway, putting on his coat and wrapping a scarf around his neck. Once he was certain he hadn’t forgotten his keys, he opened his door, and stopped short, not believing what he was seeing.

Because there, on the welcome mat, placed dead center, was a single, solitary orange.

Left there like a gift, a promise, a hope, just waiting for Steve to find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's just one more chapter after this, and it will feature some absolutely stunning artwork by ElKane. I can't wait to share it with you all.
> 
> And to everyone who's accompanied Steve and Bucky on this weird little journey, I can't thank you enough. Your comments are my Christmas oranges. =)


	6. Plus One - Steve

**Plus One - Steve**

A year ago, if anyone had asked, Steve would have told them he hated Christmas.

But that was before a miracle that felt more like a crucifixion, and an orange left on his doorstep, its pitted skin brighter than any star in the sky, with a promise of home.

And a kiss, both bitter and sticky, if a little bit bruised, but still the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.

Because a year ago, he had been alone.

But this year he wasn’t.

It wasn’t the shelter of a farmhouse in the middle of a war. Or a Tower filled with too much brightness and technology he didn’t understand yet, and strangers who were no longer strangers. There may have only been one additional occupant in the two-bedroom duplex apartment in Red Hook he had found in a moment of desperate desperation, but that didn’t mean it was lonely. Steve’s apartment, his life, was now filled with what had always meant Christmas, and home, and love to him. Not just one day in December, but for the rest of the year as well. The rest of all the years, centuries, eons, lifetimes, however many there were left.

Bucky was still that strange boy, now a strange man, with the bluest eyes Steve had ever seen. Strange in some ways familiar, and strange in ways that were still unknown to the both of them. But his eyes, which he knew others had always thought unusual, still saw everything when they looked at him, and burned with even more love than they once had.

Steve knew whenever he looked back at Bucky, his eyes did the exact same thing.

It hadn’t been an easy year. It had been two months after that orange had been left on his doorstep as a message of hope, before Steve had finally been able to track Bucky to a rundown apartment in Bucharest, where he discovered plums had been Bucky’s treasured fruit of choice. But he had found him. And he had brought Bucky home.

There had been some dark days, weeks, when Bucky had locked himself in silence, hidden in closets, under beds, drowning in the oceans of his own mind. One time he disappeared for ten days, and even now Steve still didn’t know where he had gone.

And there were some dark days still.

But there were good days too.

More and more as the seasons changed, closer together, as Bucky worked on healing himself. Steve had had to learn more patience than he’d ever thought he’d be capable of possessing, while not blaming either himself or Bucky when he didn’t know what to do. But time could heal almost all wounds, and it was doing its job, allowing the dust to settle.

Sam and Natasha helped too.

Sometimes Steve would come home from running errands, and find Sam and Bucky sitting on the couch, the both of them looking exhausted but also victorious; another monster lying slain at their feet.

Sometimes Natasha would knock on their door, insisting Bucky accompany her on a walk. While suspicious at first, Bucky eventually warmed to her, and they now shared a friendship Steve would probably never understand, but was grateful for none-the-less. Neither of them would ever tell him what they talked about on those walks, and the one time Steve asked, Natasha had only said, _‘He needs to know you can survive it. It’s not easy, and he’s always going to carry some of that in him, but it will get better. He needs to see that, and know that he can do it too.’_

As if there was ever any doubt.

Bucky already had survived it, in spite of how brutal some of his days and memories were. He was never going to be who he was, but he was already becoming who he was always meant to be, a phoenix rising from its own ashes, to wrap his wings around Steve.

Because he was a Barnes. And when a Barnes decided you were theirs, they never let you go. They wouldn’t let even Death get in their way, once they loved you.

And Bucky Barnes, a strange boy with even stranger eyes, had seen Steve at seven years old, and knew he had found the one he would always love.

Steve felt exactly the same way.

It was a year filled with patience and time. Setbacks and triumphs. Tears and laughter. And softness, so much softness. Steve made sure of that.

It had always been Bucky who had given Steve softness before; the cool skin of his inner wrist on Steve’s fevered brow. A strong arm, lending its strength as he draped it over aching shoulders that were exhausted from coughing. Tender fingers trailing over the crooked and sore knobs of Steve’s spine when it was more than warmth they were seeking from each other in their shared bed.

Steve made it his goal to give Bucky softness now, and that same endless devotion. Bucky had done more than his share, and it was long past time for Steve to have his turn.

So there were flannel sheets and cotton hoodies. Cashmere scarves and well washed jeans, warm from the dryer. A fuzzy robe, fluffy slippers, and fleece throws on the back of every chair and couch.

Softness and warmth. And warmth and softness, that Steve would have drowned Bucky in if he would have allowed it.

Until one day, months after that lonely orange had been left on his doorstep, and discussions about permission and desire, boundaries and consent, and rules that weren’t rules but safeguards instead, there had been kisses too. Just as soft, but infinitely warmer than anything they had ever shared before, that eventually led to other things, that were both familiar and strange, but so deeply, _deeply_ missed.

The first time they had come together like that, collapsing back onto sheets that were damp with their own sweat, Bucky had cried. Steve panicked, thinking he had done something wrong, that he’d hurt Bucky, when that was the last thing Steve ever wanted to do. But Bucky had merely pulled him close, his arms, one of flesh and one of metal, once again holding onto Steve so tightly his ribs ached, and when he had at last been able to find his words, he said;

_‘You’re here. And you’re real. You’re really real. And that means I’m home. I’m home. Finally. Finally… **Finally.** ’_

_‘Yeah Bucky, you are. We both are.’_

And then, with those words, with that realization, Steve burst into tears, and the two of them spent the rest of the night crying in each other arms, in relief, in joy, in love.

So much love.

That had been a month and a half ago. And now it was Christmas.

Steve had once again declined Tony’s invitation to spend it at the Tower. He loved his teammates, he truly did, but it wasn’t how he wanted to spend the holiday. Not really. And Bucky wasn’t ready for that, not yet, although he _was_ getting better, every day.

Instead, what he wanted, what they both really wanted, was to spend a quiet Christmas alone with the man he loved, the man he had always loved.

They had a small tree they had gone together to pick out, that filled the apartment with the scent of pine. Bucky had decorated the rest of their rooms with tinsel and lights, because he had spent over seventy years in the dark, and he would now always seek out brightness and color, although nothing would ever be as bright or as colorful, as beautiful to Steve, as the blue of Bucky’s eyes.

There would be carols on the radio, maybe a slow dance or two, and gifts to exchange, more than either of them had ever seen before, and a meal Steve had researched that they would cook and then eat together, until they were bursting with both food and happiness.

But most importantly, after the gifts had been given, the meal eaten, and the dishes washed and put away, there would be the small pile of oranges, waiting for them on the kitchen table, that Bucky had made sure to purchase. They would eat them one at a time, carefully peeling the skin before breaking them in half to share, because they had always shared everything between them.

Then there would be kisses, where Steve would press his lips to those of this strange boy, who was now a strange man, and taste oranges. That’s how Steve would know that it was really, really Christmas.

And filled as it was with hope, and peace, and a taste on his lips that may have hinted at oranges, but really meant, had always meant _I love you_ and always would, it would be the best Christmas Steve had ever had.

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached the end of this strange little story my brain came up with about Christmases, family, love and oranges, and for everyone who took a chance on this fic, I want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> Once again, I need to give my love and thanks to my amazing and brilliant beta, Merry_rf, who ran with this Christmas story and made it even better than I could have possibly hoped.
> 
> And then, there is ElKane, who created the ABSOLUTELY STUNNING artwork. I practically cried when I first saw it, because seriously, if there is anything that captures the mood of what I was trying to go for in A Nativity of Oranges, it's her beautiful artwork. She was a dream to work with, and all of her art is just as gorgeous. Seriously. Please take a look for yourself. Her other pieces, as well as commission info, can be found [here](https://elkane.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Lastly, I hope that no matter where you are in the world or how you spend the holidays, you are in a place of safety, peace and love. Each and everyone of you is precious, and I would give you all oranges if I could. 
> 
> <3 <3 <3


End file.
